


Here's Looking at You

by spikesgirl58



Category: Man from Uncle - Fandom
Genre: AU, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 07:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the gin joints, why did Illya, a young student, have to stumble into that one particular place?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here's Looking at You

It was the rain that drove him inside.  Illya Kuryakin had been on his way to a tutoring job when the rain, which had been threatening all day, finally arrived and brought with it as many friends as possible.

He’d left without an umbrella, mostly because he’d given it to another student to use and she hadn’t returned in time.

Turning up his collar, Illya headed for the first lit building and slipped through the crowd that congregated in front of it.  Illya could be practically invisible when he wanted to be and right now he would do anything to be out of the storm.

It took him a few minutes to realize that he’d taken refuge in a bar.  It wasn’t like the sort he and his fellow students frequented.  Here there were touches of elegance and no sawdust on the floors.  Tables had white clothes over them and people spoke politely as opposed to shouting and laughing.

He headed for a quiet corner and pressed his back against the wall.  He knew he was being watched.  He was a young Soviet in Paris.  Many considered him the best and the brightest the USSR had to offer and they were keen to make sure he remained loyal to the cause.

“ _Quel est cet endroit?”_ he asked a passing waiter and the man scowled at Illya and at his dress.

“We speak English in here, bud.  This is _Rick's Café Américain.”_

Illya mulled that over.  He spoke some English, just enough to get by, but he recognized the name well enough.

“Would you like to order a drink?”

Illya shook his head.  He had money, but it was earmarked for something else.  And in a place like this, he was sure the prices were well out of his reach and the waiter could see the hesitation in Illya’s eyes not to mention the threadbare state of his jacket.  The Soviet government was generous, but only so generous.  They paid for Illya’s school, housing, and supplies.  Everything else was up to him.

“No drink, no room.  Get out.”

A second waiter came up to the first and murmured, “We are stuck, the piano player has cancelled.  How are people going to dance without any music?”

“I can play,” Illya said slowly, trying to keep his Russian accent from creeping into his words too much.  “I can play piano,” he repeated in French.

“You just got yourself a gig.”  The second waiter grabbed Illya by the elbow and hauled him away from the first waiter.  Illya wasn’t sorry for the rescue.

“A gig?”

“ _Oui,_ um _, concert de musique.”_

The man’s accent was terrible, but Illya was just happy he didn’t have to rely upon his English.  “ _Quel genre de musique.”_

“Dance music.”  The man leaned closer, “If they dance, they get thirsty.  If they are thirsty, the drink more.”

Illya nodded.  The man took Illya behind a screen and offered him a white dinner jacket.  It hung on Illya’s thin frame, but no matter.

“Who are you?” Illya asked as he adjusted the jacket.

“If you can keep a secret, Napoleon Solo.  Here they call me Chuck.”

“Napoleon?”  Illya repeated, deadpan.  “You are pulling my foot.”

“Huh?  Oh, you mean, leg, and, nope.  I can tell by your accent – Russian?”

“Ukrainian,” Illya corrected deftly.  He’d had lots of practice.

“Not your sort of place.”  Napoleon pulled off his own tie and hung it around Illya’s neck.

“No, I am student of the Sorbonne.”  Illya’s mouth was aching from wrapping it around the English.  “I came in here to escape the storm.”

“Well, play your cards and your piano right and you could stand to make some serious money.”

“As opposed to funny money?”

That made the waiter jump and clamp a hand over Illya’s mouth.  “Never say stuff like that here.”

“I was making joke.”

“Well, leave the humor to me and I’ll leave the piano playing to you.”  Napoleon shot a look around and nodded.  “Follow me.  It’s time for your big debut.”

                                                                                ****

Illya played the last chords to “Good Night, Irene.”  He’d been told that was the song he was supposed to close with.  To his credit, couples had stayed on the dance floor most of the evening.  There were several bills in a glass jar marked tips and the owner, a man who looked as if he suffered from permanent indigestion kept nodding to him.

Sighing, Illya closed the keyboard cover and pushed the stool back.  He hadn’t played for a long time and it had done his heart and soul a world of good to lose himself in the music.  Despite his best efforts, friends were hard to come by here.  He was profoundly lonely and it had been nice to have the warmth of music to wrap around him, if only for an evening.  And this was much easier than trying to teach a disinterested and reluctant student.

Looking up, he saw Napoleon fighting his way through the crowd to him.  “You were great,” the waiter enthused as he leaned against the piano.

Illya smiled and bowed his head slightly.  “ _Merci.”_

“What are you doing tomorrow night?”  Napoleon adjusted the lapels of his white waistcoat.

_“Pardon?”_

It took Napoleon a moment.  _“_ Um… _Que faites-vous demain soir?”_

Again, Illya grinned.  “Why?  Do you want a date?”

This time Napoleon laughed.  “Tempting, but I think my boss just might be offering you a job tonight.”

“I’d like that.”  With a shock, Illya realized he would like that.

“Buy you a drink?”

“Is that permitted?”

“It will be in about ten minutes when this place closes.”  Napoleon looked around at the bar.  “I’m really going to miss this joint, I hope.” 

“You are leaving?”  Illya felt sad, even though he’d only known the man a few hours.  There was a kindness and tenderness to his eyes that spoke of great passion.  Illya would like to have had the opportunity to get to know the man better.

“Maybe not today or tomorrow, but some day.  No matter how much we love Paris, we all leave in the end.”

“ _Oui._  I understand.”

“Oh, here comes Rick.  He doesn’t speak French, but he has a soft spot for Russians, so don’t hold back on the accent.”  Napoleon winked and started to leave.

“Thank you, _Chuck_.”  Illya held out his hand and stood.  “You have shown me great kindness tonight.”

“Nonsense.”   Napoleon took the proffered hand and shook it solemnly before pulling Illya closer for a kiss to both cheeks.  As those lips, soft and smooth, brushed against Illya’s skin, Napoleon murmured. “And tonight is just the start to what looks like the beginning of a beautiful friendship, if you ask me.  Who knows what awaits us tomorrow?”

Napoleon walked and Illya watched Napoleon’s backside with appreciation.   _Who knows, indeed?_

 

 


End file.
